The Lord of the Cranes
by Hemlock
Summary: Kathleen Johnson has died, but not before leaving John with seemingly nonsensical words. These words turn out to be deadly, as John would discover today...
1. Restart

**CHAPTER ONE**

* * *

He was staring at the wall.

He could hear the world outside – a car whizzed past by; a lonely drunk walked unsteadily; Mrs Hudson closing her bathroom door below; the cafe downstairs received yet another customer. He could hear all that. He could also see that the tea Mrs Hudson had set before him had gone cold – no more steam rising from the pot. He would rather have hot tea, but his body would not let his mouth open and scream for Mrs Hudson.

He feared, should he open his mouth, it would scream out his anger. God knows Mrs Hudson had had enough of that for the past two months. Sod it; bless her soul and her sickly hip.

He rose and grabbed the electric kettle. He poured the tea from the pot into the kettle and set it on. He listened to it bubble away, reaching boiling point. It flicked off and he quickly poured out some tea into a cup. He watched the steam rose for a moment and set it aside.

Rising from the sofa, he crossed the room towards his writing desk. The flat was neat, tidy and orderly now, unlike before. Booby traps had been everywhere – a ping pong ball that tested the speed of blood drop; bundles of wet towels that were used to simulate drowning bodies; and shoes. Where the shoes had come from he never asked, and never wanted to care and know. What he knew was all the mess made Mrs Hudson complain and made _him _happy.

Was he happy? He wondered as he opened the laptop. If _he_ ever was happy, he never showed it. He himself never saw it.

He crossed the room again, picked up the teacup and saucer, and returned to his writing desk. The laptop was on after a few seconds, and he set his hands on the keyboard. Then his eyes caught something. Something rare.

He had just received an email.

John H. Watson, a war veteran, bachelor and quite recently lost a friend, had just received an email.

* * *

With the expression of a loyal terrier and the patience of a saint, John sat through the meandering reminiscences of Kathleen Johnson:

"... I mean, I never thought of that! She would have nothing of that sort inside her house, ever! Dear me, such a hot day today! So lucky to get the train from Whirlington! It's always packed, you know, bound for London, but today it seems no one is on! If you count Mr Trent, that is. Well..."

A hopeful look appeared on John's face. He leant forward, prepared to stand up. Mrs Hudson, ever floating in the kitchenette, warned him with a reproachful look. John slowly sat down and fiddled with a stray yarn on the long-suffering sofa.

"I still don't know what I should tell you! Oh dear me, I am so forgetful, I fear my mind is going, you know! One minute I recall what's important, then the next, it's gone!"

John did not show his disappointment, but the hardening line of his lips was proof enough. He hoped the nearness of their respective seats did not render his emotions easy to read. But it seemed that Mrs Hudson could, all the way from the kitchenette, for there, upon her face, that cross look appeared again.

Kathleen, meanwhile, was still muttering to herself while rummaging through her bag, the ones that supermarkets gave to encourage shoppers to recycle. From the looks of it, it had seen better days. John briefly wondered where in the world she put her money.

Kathleen gave a sudden exclamation that both John and Mrs Hudson gave a start. She nearly bounced off the chair in her excitement. "I found it!" she went on. "I found it!" In her hand was a small notebook.

"What did you find, Ms Johnson?" John hoped to God it was whatever that she had lost and came here to ask him to look for her, so she would finally leave. His voice was patently level, however, and did not show those thoughts, Mrs Hudson's reproachful look still withstanding.

"I wrote it down here, so now I can tell you what I have lost! Here, read it!"

Trying his best not to roll his eyeballs, John slowly took the proffered notebook. It was nothing remarkable, the notebook. It was a sorry-looking thing, with lots of its pages torn off, leaving tattered leaves of half-pages between the covers. Some pages, however, were safe. John noticed one particular page with today's date, and written in neat, precise handwriting were these words:

LOST LORD OF THE CRANES

"Rather dramatic," was all John could say. "Can you, perhaps, give me more detail on this?" He turned the written page toward Kathleen. She squinted and grinned helplessly. John took in a breath. _This is getting impossible_, he thought rather crossly.

As it was his usual, John slowly turned the notebook in his hand. Again he stared at the open page, and again he found himself drawing blank.

Just like every time he looked at Kathleen. It was obvious she was slightly overweight, yet seemingly ridiculously unaware of it. She sweated profusely, partly from the heat, and partly because of her choice of attire, which was unsuitable for this hellish summery weather. He had turned on the air conditioner, but it seemed to do nothing to lessen her sweatiness. He, however, found the room almost chilly by now. Her hair was a dishevelled mess, which probably a reflection of her state of mind.

"So, Ms Johnson, what do you want me to do, really?" he asked yet again.

Kathleen shrugged and grinned again. "I really don't know, Dr Watson. But, should you have any news, would you mind calling me? I will stay in the Dorchester for the weekend, and should I hear nothing from you after Sunday, can I safely assume that there is nothing that can be done at all? No offense, dear. Here is my card."

That she could count on, probably. "I shall be calling you soon enough," John said with a dry smile, rising to lead her to the door. Outside he saw a black expensive car, probably foreign made, sat on the curb. A lean, middle-aged gentleman stood beside it. He immediately opened the backseat door as Kathleen shook hands with John, and she slid into the dark belly of the smoothly sculpted foreign automobile. It glided silently away.

_Sherlock would've known_, John thought, looking at the card Kathleen had handed to him. Now he knew the reason of the unreasonably thick attire. She had travelled in first class all the way from Whirlington, unprepared for his poorly inadequate air conditioning, and had sat patiently, suffering throughout their entire conversation.

Kathleen Johnson was no ordinary absent-minded woman. She was part of a rather exclusive circle of silver and sterling business that dealt with antiques. And she had just left him with a notebook that should mean something to her, which John had only until this Sunday to discover what exactly did it mean.

_Sherlock would've known_. John turned and walked back inside, pausing a moment in the doorway. _In a heartbeat._

* * *

The next morning, John tried to write in his blog. He managed to type a few sentences before he posted – without bothering to check it – and went to work.

For a Friday, the crowd in the private clinic seemed to thin as the day wound away. A few cases of heat stroke, dry coughs, and a couple who came down with food poisoning crossed his consultation room. Just a normal day's work.

John stole a peek at his watch. It was almost four in the afternoon. Tea time, he thought, as he stood up, took out his packet of tea, still sealed, and went to boil the water.

Just as the water boiled, somebody burst into his consultation room. It was Rani, the nurse at the front desk. "Doctor, you need to come outside now."

"What's the matter?" he asked, but quickly left everything and walked out with her.

"There's a woman outside – someone stabbed her just outside the clinic!"

"Dear God," John muttered and quickened his steps. When he arrived at the front desk, he saw the crowd had gathered in a wide ring. "Give way, please!" he said to the crowd, which parted immediately.

The victim was lying face down on the floor. He knelt and saw the wound on the woman's back. One quick look and John realised that if she was not immediately stabilised, she would die. The wound must have gone through her artery. No matter how many bandages John put on, blood just kept flowing profusely.

"Dr Watson?" Rani asked him.

His mind was already working ahead. "Get –" but suddenly the victim grabbed his pants leg.

"Madam, you shouldn't move," John said, then instructed Rani to get some medicine from the pharmacy that would stabilise the victim.

"Flip me over, Dr Watson," the victim said amidst all the chaos. John had the uncomfortable feeling that he had heard the voice before. "Settee," she added.

Slowly, John did so, holding the staunch firmly against the bleeding wound. When he saw the woman's face, he was momentarily taken aback. "Ms Johnson? How – Why – ?"

"Hole – in..."

John's medical mind shifted, took control. _She's going into shock. Blood loss causes her to lose focus. _"Ms Johnson, focus." John shook her bodily. "Look at me, Kathleen."

She turned her head his way, but her eyes were not looking at him. "It's getting dark, Dr Watson...settee... it's six... hole..."

John could feel the blood running down his fingers and for one instant, he flashbacked to that day in front of St Bartholomew's. "Kathleen, hold on – stay with me, Kathleen..."

She shook her head. "Hole in settee... six... hole in settee..."

Kathleen Johnson gave a silly giggle before her whole body slumped against his and went limp.

* * *

_A/N: This is a reload, since the first version had no breaks and makes a confusing read. Do review, and I promise to have the second chapter by today!_


	2. Rewind

CHAPTER TWO

Lestrade closed a little pocketbook he seemed to have with him all the time now, and stared at John. Pale, a bit thin, a little tired... but not upset. Not overly, from the way John had cooperated. He was the model citizen. He answered questions forthrightly, no beating around the bush. This naturally made Lestrade a little wary, to say the least. He tapped John's shoulder. John jerked his head around. "Do you have something else to say, John? Off the record."

"What? No, nothing at all. What else should I have?"

"Information that may help clear up this mess?"

"Look, Lestrade, I am as much in the dark as you are. She was stabbed in front of the clinic, and we tried to help. That was all."

"Are you sure?"

When John replied, his voice was a tad lower, less John the civilian, and more John the military personnel. "You've been keeping me from my business, which is helping people, and inside, there are people who need help. So if you'll excuse me, Detective Inspector, I need to get back to work."

John turned and marched back inside the clinic, leaving Lestrade no other choice but to go back to his car, where Donovan was already waiting. She seemed about to say something.

"Shut up," he said at her.

"What?" Donovan asked, surprised.

"Your face has that look."

"What look?"

"Just – shut up and go."

"So you're the new genius now?"

She quickly realised that was the wrong thing to say; Lestrade's face had soured; his hand gripped even tighter at the door; without further word he entered the car and slammed it so hard, the entire car shook violently.

* * *

"Oh thank you, Mrs Hudson."

She placed the steaming pot and cup and saucers on the writing table where John had been typing away. "John dear, you really should start eat something."

"I ate downstairs. Just sandwich, but it's really filling."

"But it's not food. And, John, I am sorry to hear about Ms Johnson. She had looked so helpless, that was why I wanted you to be kind to her, but it all seems useless now..."

Mrs Hudson then saw John took a breath. Taking that as a warning, she shrugged and, as if she were merely the mist, silently withdrew. The room was quiet again. John hated that. He hated the quiet. It reminded him too much of what was not here anymore: Sherlock. Even the wall was the way it was. That horrible wallpaper stayed there. He could not get it repapered; he had no money to spare these days. Mrs Hudson seemed to understand and kept her peace.

From the scent wafting about him, she must have prepared Earl Grey. It was five-minute maximum. He pulled out the teabags and placed it aside.  
Too coincidental, the stabbing. Kathleen Johnson had consulted him, despite John's protestations that he might not be able to produce results. Then a few hours later she lay in his arms from a stab wound. A single stab wound from the back that punched her artery.

A single stab wound. That fact jarred John's brain into thinking:

A single stab wound. From the back, it would be difficult to achieve direct hit. You may have to stab several times just to hit a target. If you hit the spine you might kill directly, but this was one stab from the back. John distinctly remembered the wound gaping under his fingers, bleeding profusely. It hit her directly at the artery, he suspected, so that was the reason to her bleeding so much leading to her death. A long, protracted, painful death.

A direct hit from the back? A single direct hit? This could not be a random stabbing like in the news.

Impossible. Unless – John shook his head and covered his mouth. He let out a ragged laugh.

"Dear lord, I'm becoming him."

But there it was: the single solution. It was the only possible solution. Someone sent a trained killer after Kathleen Johnson. This could explain the accuracy. But whatever on earth for? Why would anyone want to kill her?

He turned in his seat. The tea now remembered, he poured out some and drank it, appreciatively since it had gone rather warm now, not steaming. Ah, wrong tea. Not Earl Grey. Lady Grey. How... feminine.

He'd ask for coffee but there was none in the pantry. He wondered if the supermarket was still open now.

* * *

John grabbed the tin of ground coffee and rushed to the nearest checkout counter. The announcer's voice that was saying something through the PA seemed to be coming out of a rolled tube.

This time, John made sure he brought extra cash, and since it was just a tin of ground coffee, it should not cost much. Behind him was a twenty-something couple who were deliriously in love. John had noticed them as soon as he entered the store. Everyone had – from the giggling, the pointing, and simply being smitten with each other. Now they were laughing behind him.

"Did you hear that?"

"Yeah!" the man laughed. "It's like she said 'the store will blows'!"

"And before that?" she giggled again.

The man whooped. John tried very hard not to turn and punch him in the face, while the checkout girl was taking her sweet time to check his purchase out. "I know! Sounds like 'your parents' sneakers' instead of 'your parking charges'! They really need to fix the PA, it's damned confusing."

More fits of giggles came from the girl. "I think I prefer it like this, it's entertaining!"

Finally he paid for the coffee and dashed out of the store. Out of the damned delirious happiness the two were... excreting. It was just badly tuned PA. Why would that be so damned funny? If one would listen carefully-

John stopped dead in his tracks. Something hit him in the head. Kathleen's last words... those words, they were a jumble. He thought she was going into a shock and her mind did not register what words she was saying out to the world. She giggled in his arms as she lay dying! But carefully put them through a filterer of sorts, and they might start to make sense. They were her dying message.

John resumed his journey back, but this time with more fervour and more desperation. He broke into a run after he had begun to sense his own impatience rising, and the twinge of pain in his leg was now a ghost of memory.

* * *

The next day, John woke up with a purpose: to decipher Kathleen's dying message. It was the weekends so John did not have to go to the clinic; his contract did not include Saturdays.

John sat down in Speedy's and ordered the full English breakfast. The tea came first and he drank it appreciatively. It was strong and a welcome to his senses.

Under the pretense of solving this morning's crossword puzzle, John asked for a pen. Then, he wrote down what Kathleen had said on a napkin.

HOLE IN SETTEE 6

He turned it upside down. No revelation there. "Well, that'd be too cliche, now wouldn't it?" John uttered to no one in particular. He stared at the words again. Still nothing appeared in his mind. Sherlock's words crossed his mind that instant.

_I envy you, John_.

He grinned at the memory, then like honey, he tasted the bitterness at the let out a cough and concentrated at the words before him.

Settee... what does furniture have anything to do with Kathleen? He distinctly remembered his own furniture, and there were no settee anywhere. He was used to slumping over the writing desk, typing away while Sherlock would sit in silence on one of those armchairs and put his hands together and close his eyes.

The waitress came with his order, breathing fast and trying hard not to show it.

"Here you are, Dr Watson. Your full English breakfast."

John gave her a smile, then he started, recalling something. "Excuse me, is today the first time this cafe begin serving this?" he asked, pointing at the rich spread. "Because I distinctly remember your menu; it did not include this." He quickly added: "I'm just curious."

The waitress gave him a trained smile. "The set was introduced a week ago," she in a breathy manner, blurring all her words; she did seem to have the wind knocked out of her. "Excuse me."

As she went off to another customer, John was left staring at the window. His brain was moving, grinding against his skull, because at that moment his mind's eye could see something - moving against the light, shapeless still, but before he could grasp it, his mind shifted to the sensory world outside.  
For outside the window stood a lean, middle-aged gentleman beside a very familiar, expensive foreign car. He was staring straight at John from behind the barrel of a gun. No... it was a semi-automatic Beretta 92FS, effective in 50 metres, while the distance between the roadside and him was less than 10 metres. Also, the only thing that stood between him and a bullet was a cheap layer of glass.

In the next seconds that would follow, John would scream out a warning to the rest of the patrons, upset his table on a side flush against the wall and brace himself for the barrage of bullets, counting them as they fly harmlessly through the broken glass window. But now, John could simply stare wide-eyed at the man and the gun.

* * *

_Thanks to the readers and reviewer. This is the next installment and be kind!_


	3. Remiss

CHAPTER THREE

IN THE MINUTES THAT FOLLOWED, everything, to John H. Watson, was a powerfully hectic mix of panic, screams and smoke. But this was also a familiar element for John. War had conditioned his response and now, even if he hated to admit it, the hell he had been in Afghanistan was effectively helping him to prioritise.

The cafe wall was an effective barrier against the bullets flying from the Beretta, but those that went through the glass window were the ones he wondered about. He raised himself slightly over the now broken window and peered.

A bullet hit too close and John quickly sank back, cursing as he did so. From the corner of his eye he saw somebody tried to stand.

"Keep down; for God's sakes, somebody's shooting!"

That effectively kept the man prone on the ground. He turned as best as he could without revealing himself on his back. John nodded sternly at him and tried to figure out a way out.

He had no need; there was a sudden break in the fire and raised voices followed on the sidewalk. Then the next thing he felt was a pair of hands around the cuff of his shirt that pulled and turned him around from behind the wall.

"Where is it?"

John was now facing probably the tallest, widest man in Britain. Strong, too, from the way he was hanging close to half a metre in the air. John quickly struggled, trying to escape, but the man simply changed his hands' location to his neck and tightened the hold.

"You only have one minute to tell me before I completely choke you."

John shook his head as much as his painful and potentially fatal position would allow. "Don't know what you're talking about," he managed to croak.

"She came to London looking specifically for you, and you're telling me lies? Oh, Sherlock Holmes, you're a bad liar, sir, and it will be your death!"

Now John realised the fatal mistake of not updating one's blog. Why wouldn't anyone believe he was not Sherlock Holmes? "Really... not... Sher..."

With all his effort now were concentrated on the act of trying to breathe, John abandoned all struggles and forced his windpipe to not collapse under the man's vicelike fingers.

"...lock... Holmes!"

Sirens wailed somewhere, yet the hands around John's neck tightened. John was not sure if he could hold on until the cops decided to arrive here.

* * *

MRS HUDSON HURRIED AS FAST AS her atrocious hips would carry her. She heard and saw what happened from her window and decided to run down. After the incident with the American bastards, she knew what to do. In one hand she clutched at the only thing she could grab off her pantry.

"Doctor!"

She felt her heart beating faster. Then the gunshots stopped. She could hear voices shouting indistinctly. Waiting a few more seconds, she figured it safe for her to venture outside.

Bursting out of her door and into the streets, she looked to her left. A tall man stood in front of the broken store window as Dr. Watson seemingly hovered in front of him. Then she realised what was happening.

"Doctor!"

Quickly, or as quick as her ageing bones would allow, she walked toward the spectacle.

"You bully!" she screamed at the tall man.

The man turned and was about to kick Mrs Hudson when she produced a spray bottle and without delay, dispensed its harmful contents squarely on the man's face and eyes. Twice.

The man screamed in agony, released the hold on Dr. Watson and doubled over, his hands now rubbing his painful eyes. Apparently that made the pain worse because he began rolling on the pavement, his groans increasing in frequency and volume.

A black car screeched past as police cars braked into a halt in front of them. Mrs Hudson stood with one arm stretched outward threateningly, the spray bottle in that hand gripped tightly. Even as the police rushed out of the cars she still stood guard over John like a fierce panther.

"Oh, doctor, are you fine?" she asked in a shaky voice. When she had no reply she quickly turned around and found two men were already all around John.

"What are you doing?" That spray bottle she held threateningly aloft.

Cautiously one of them said, "Don't spray, madam, we're reviving him."

She sighed in relief and heard a groan coming from behind her. Mrs Hudson turned around.

The man Mrs Hudson had just sprayed was pulled up standing by two burly cops. Quickly a pair of cuffs were produced and slapped on the man's wrist.

From behind these massive men the shorter figure of DI Lestrade popped into view. He looked about with a worried expression on his face. When he saw Mrs Hudson's shaken but otherwise unharmed figure the expression eased.

"Are you all right, Mrs Hudson? Is that Dr Watson?" he added in disbelief, looking at the prone figure surrounded now by paramedics. "What happened?"

Mrs Hudson shook her head, her heart beating at much manageable pace now, although her voice was still shaky. "I will be, after a cup of tea. Oh, detective inspector, somebody was shooting, and I went down, and then, there he was, choking poor Dr Watson - what have I done?"

"Saved Dr Watson, I'd say." Lestrade grabbed Mrs Hudson's shoulders, pulled her aside and looked over at the people scurrying about John, whose body suddenly spasmed. A prolonged groan and several coughs followed. Good sign.

Mrs Hudson, meanwhile, looked sickly. "Did the man hurt you in any way, Mrs Hudson?" Lestrade asked her.

"No, but poor man, I think I sprayed him with window cleaner fluid instead of that jasmine air freshener. I know I shouldn't put these things so close together, one being breathable and the other harmful, but... My goodness, do you suppose he'd go blind?"

Lestrade looked at her in a queer manner and gently extricated the said bottle from within her tight grasp. She gave a surprised 'oops' and shrugged helplessly.

Not so helpless, Lestrade thought as his attention turned to the arrested man, now in the car, who was still groaning as the area around his eyes started to redden.

Lestrade thought it only humane to let another paramedic have a look at that. But he would take his own sweet time.

* * *

"YOU HAVE MRS HUDSON TO thank for," Lestrade said, putting away his trusty notebook.

He has taken John's statement and should be leaving, but Lestrade needed to ask John something. Off the record again, if that what it would take to make him talk.

For a doctor, John thought it strange to be on the opposite side of medical treatment. Funny, almost. He did a quick glance at Lestrade. The detective inspector was looking intently at him.

He looked away with his eyes. His neck was still hurting badly, he doubt it if he could turn his neck in any direction within the next few days. X-rays showed no fractures, hairline or otherwise. _All good_, he thought cynically. _I have enough baggage to last several lifetimes and don__'__t need more_.

But he was still alive, thanks to Mrs Hudson. "Yes, I've heard."

"Never surprise her when she's cleaning the windows in the future."

John sat up straighter. "She sprayed him?"

Lestrade nodded, smirking. "Brave old bird. She strolled up to him and simply sprayed his eyes."

"Sherlock taught her that," John said, smiling tightly.

"WHAT?"

"Unintentionally, of course. Remember the American who fell out of our window and onto her bins? Anyway, how's the man doing?"

"Yeah, regarding that."

John turned to him, this time as fast as his pained neck would allow. "I never like sentences which begin like that."

Lestrade shrugged noncommittally. "He's not talking to anyone."

"I meant his eyes."

"Oh, that. Well, they're as good as they could be. Thank goodness for Mrs Hudson's misreading the directions. She's diluted them a bit too much to blind a person, but it still would've hurt a lot."

John's already wrinkled forehead creased even further.

Lestrade added: "He's not talking to Mycroft, either."

John sank back in his pillow, suddenly losing interest. "Well, I guess this man is more than just a random shoot-and-choke street mugging, huh?"

Lestrade ignored that. "What does the man want from you, John? He shot -"

"Attempted!" John loudly corrected him.

"- you in broad daylight, in public. Unless you have something, no man in his right mind would attempt this."

John stared into space, ignoring the elaborate silence Lestrade was spreading all over the room. He was staring at John intently.

"John..."

"I don't know!" His voice exploded in the room. "I don't have any idea what he wants and why he wants to kill me for it."

"Well, then, now I'm here, we can compare notes."

The sudden intrusion of a familiar voice made Lestrade turn in his seat.

There was Mycroft, standing in the doorway, with his umbrella, in his immaculate coat, shirt and tie. John briefly wondered if a leap off this hospital would do him and the world any good.

"Go away." John would not even face Mycroft.

"Not until you tell me what you've known so far."

Mycroft put his umbrella at the stand nearby and stood at the end of the bed.

"Go to hell, then."

"I've been to hell and back, John, and so have you." Mycroft pulled a chair and sat down as John tried his best to avert his eyes. "Maybe that will make you open up."

John then chose that moment to meet Mycroft's eyes. "We have our own hells, Mycroft. I don't share mine, definitely not with you."

A spasm appeared on Mycroft's face and was gone, replaced by a knowing smile. "You are lying, aren't you?"

John snickered. That was fast, even for Mycroft. "You come in and accuse me of lying, in my sickbed. Someone's desperate."

"No," Mycroft said with that calm, humourless grin. "One look at the curb and I know you're leaving out a lot details."

"That's lying by omission," Lestrade added.

"Quiet, Lestrade," they both chorused. Lestrade saw them both stare at each other, then at him.

"Okay, I need to return to the station anyway," he muttered and left.

"Now then," Mycroft said as the door closed, "the man in custody isn't saying anything, but he has an accomplice."

John nodded. No use hiding things from him.

"The accomplice escaped, judging by the tyre marks on the roadside and the fact the man we have in custody has his hands smelling like your aftershave. So, do share."

"The man is tall, lean, middle-aged," John began. "He shoots with an M9."

"A Beretta 92FS?" Mycroft piped in.

"Yes. He shoots like someone who has seen service. Maybe a police, the military, perhaps. Though with that gun, I think military is more probable."

Mycroft's left eyebrow rose ever so slightly. "You see that much within that few moments."

John shrugged. Secretly he felt gleeful; Mycroft was easier to surprise than his brother. "With guns, you either have correct posture from years of training, or you watch bad TV and get it all wrong."

Mycroft grinned, again without humour. "You might also want to add that he drives a foreign car, midnight black, slightly flat tyres, has a problem with his left knee, and not very familiar with London."

John rolled his eyes, trying his best not to look disturbed and impressed, yet feeling both right now. "The phrase 'big brother' really sums you up," he said, recalling the small cameras affixed in the area. However, what Mycroft had just said stirred something in the murky depths of his mind.

Mycroft nodded, but his expression seemed to warn John that there was more coming. "Then tell me; why was Kathleen Johnson murdered hours before the biggest antique sale in Britain closed?"

John could only gape in response as Mycroft rose. "Well, since we're obviously not going anywhere, I better go."

"You better." John recalled Anthea, or whoever that woman's name was, affixed to her phone like it was an extra limb, waiting for Mycroft in that black car.

And then, John had an idea.

* * *

_Author's note: I know, this is a long time in between chapters, but I will make it up to you all because I am free!_


End file.
